I forgot to write anything this week, so have a one-line filler from
the Bikeabout:

If you can't miss it, hit it square.

--
Joy Beeson, U.S.A., mostly central Hoosier,
some Northern Indiana, Upstate New York, Florida, and Hawaii
joy beeson at comcast dot net http://wlweather.net/PAGEJOY/
The above message is a Usenet post.
I don't recall having given anyone permission to use it on a Web site.

On Mayday, I rode to the grocery and back, and on the Cinco de Mayo,
the farmers' markets were open for the first time this spring.

The craft fair and both farmer's markets were sort of disappointing,
more me than them, I think, and I forgot to check Central Park
Pavilion for activity, but I made the usual stops at Sherman & Lin's
and International Foods on the way home.

Bought a parsley plant at Sherman & Lin's, and planted it before I
unloaded my panniers. They also had basil, but I'm holding out for
cinnamon or purple or something. Still no sign of volunteer marigolds
in the elevated herb bed.

Had to empty my panniers because of a catch failure, and didn't put
anything back except the bag of bags. No need to insulate or carry
ice, I thought -- the chocolate-coated saltines I bought at the
downtown farmer's markets stuck together on the way home. When
planning my route back, I realized that I didn't have my map. And
when I bought a can of grapefruit juice, I realized that the only
bungees aboard were the one that is holding my broken pannier together
and the one that I wound around the top wire of the other pannier last
summer so it wouldn't scratch the polished marble of the city hall.
(The City Hall used to be a bank. Someday I'm going to go downtown
during business hours and ask what they did with the vault.)

The catch broke off the pannier so neatly that it took me quite a
while to figure out what had happened. I discussed possibilities with
my spouse, and have settled on sewing it back together with
stainless-steel wire. I have never folded the panniers, so it doesn't
matter that the attachment will be permanent. Indeed, I was surprised
that the reflector bolted through the joint didn't inhibit folding,
once I'd pulled all the insulation out. Since the insulation retained
the contents, it took me a while to notice that the bottom had fallen
out. Which led to a bungee-based repair in front of Kroger last
Tuesday.

My first thought was to wind the wire where the catch was, my second
thought was securing the full length of the side, then I thought it
would be a good idea to also wire both ends, now I'm thinking that
I'll cut the wire to the length I think I need and start with the
middle of the wire in the middle of the side. And then I'll also wire
the other pannier -- if the bottom fell out of that one, everything
*would* fall out.

It would be simpler to buy new panniers, but I'd have to go all the
way to Nappanee, and I'm not 100% sure the bike shop is still there,
let alone sure that it still sells wire panniers. And they had mesh
bottoms; I prefer wire.

Now that I'm riding again (knock wood), I may have something to say
next week.

(Feels like my fifteenth re-start of the season, but there hasn't been
time for that many: May is only the fifth month, and my first
re-start was in January.)

I was kinder sleepy when I wrote yesterday's post, as you can tell by
the verbosity. Now it's past time for my nap . . . look out!

I carried the first ice bag of the season today -- on my pedal-powered
wheelchair. (AKA "Trek Pure".) We had lunch at church, and afterward
I filled a sandwich bag with leftovers, and another with ice so that I
could take the long way home.

On the Heritage Trail, I noticed a redbud tree, and decided to make a
side trip to Mrs. Miller's field -- not to be confused with Miller
Field, which I was about to pass when I saw the redbud.

I saw many fine displays of redbuds both before and after visiting the
redbud avenue that leads to the field, but none quite so splashy as
the view that greets you after turning around in the field to come
back out.

And now I glance out the window and see that my crab-apple tree is in
bloom, and behind it the red maple is maxed out.

Now that I'm back in the saddle, I'm getting ideas for posts. This
one is only half an idea, because I'm sure I've said this before, but
it bears repeating:

Never touch a brake lever without putting your other hand on the other
lever.

Once established, the habit of one-handed braking is impossible to
break. You can conscientiously brake properly dozens of times a day
for months, and the first time your attention wavers, you'll be
reaching for one brake with your habitual hand.

And exactly when do you brake without paying any attention to your
technique? When your life depends on stopping RIGHT NOW.

So make sure that your unconscious technique is the one you want to
use in an emergency.

I went to the Fat and Skinny Tire Fest on my "pedal-powered
wheelchair" yesterday and today. Not until afternoon yesterday,
because the morning was gloomy and damp. (In the morning, I bound a
couple of pieces of old quilt to take to the animal shelter the next
time I ride the Dump Tour widdershins.)

When I cut through the festival grounds on my way home from church
today, there appeared to be a criterium going on. The pack happened
to be on the other side when I emerged from the Boathouse parking lot,
so Canal Street appeared to be available. Luckily, I realized the
significance of the straw bales at the corner and the fence between
the sidewalk and the street before I crossed Administration Boulevard.
But I never figured out the purpose of the fence on the other side of
the sidewalk. It wasn't to keep people off the grass.

After coming home, I went back to buy lunch for two. I was surprised
that there was no line at Sweet Dreams, that being the only restaurant
that was open -- the food vendors that had been there on Saturday had
gone home, or maybe they are only open in the evening, and The Light
Rail and The Cerulean close on Sunday. The Boathouse might have been
open; I didn't think about it when I was passing, and every parking
place in town was occupied, so that was no indication.

I discovered that riding the flatfoot isn't as easy in a slim dress as
in a full skirt. I have to pull it way up to be able to step through
the frame. And I have to pull it down when I get off. I reflected
several times that it wasn't that hard to mount my road bike! And
that is hard; I have to put my good knee over the top bar, then pry my
foot up and over the saddle, all the while standing on my bad leg. (I
can't even walk beside a bike on the right side, let alone mount from
there. Nobody ever taught me how to mount, so I don't know how I got
addicted to mounting from the left.)

And if the flatfoot's pedals are not at just the right angle, I don't
have anywhere to stand on my left foot or I have no place to put my
right foot after clearing the frame. Nonetheless, I've decided to
"wheelchair" to church regardless of how I feel when I wake up,
because I frequently find that not limping takes too much attention
after I get halfway home.

But on Saturday, I really should have walked to the festival. I had
to walk most of the time anyway, and pushing the flatfoot was a drag.

I went to the Fat and Skinny Tire Fest on my "pedal-powered
wheelchair" yesterday and today. Not until afternoon yesterday,
because the morning was gloomy and damp. (In the morning, I bound a
couple of pieces of old quilt to take to the animal shelter the next
time I ride the Dump Tour widdershins.)

When I cut through the festival grounds on my way home from church
today, there appeared to be a criterium going on. The pack happened
to be on the other side when I emerged from the Boathouse parking lot,
so Canal Street appeared to be available. Luckily, I realized the
significance of the straw bales at the corner and the fence between
the sidewalk and the street before I crossed Administration Boulevard.
But I never figured out the purpose of the fence on the other side of
the sidewalk. It wasn't to keep people off the grass.

After coming home, I went back to buy lunch for two. I was surprised
that there was no line at Sweet Dreams, that being the only restaurant
that was open -- the food vendors that had been there on Saturday had
gone home, or maybe they are only open in the evening, and The Light
Rail and The Cerulean close on Sunday. The Boathouse might have been
open; I didn't think about it when I was passing, and every parking
place in town was occupied, so that was no indication.

I discovered that riding the flatfoot isn't as easy in a slim dress as
in a full skirt. I have to pull it way up to be able to step through
the frame. And I have to pull it down when I get off. I reflected
several times that it wasn't that hard to mount my road bike! And
that is hard; I have to put my good knee over the top bar, then pry my
foot up and over the saddle, all the while standing on my bad leg. (I
can't even walk beside a bike on the right side, let alone mount from
there. Nobody ever taught me how to mount, so I don't know how I got
addicted to mounting from the left.)

One always mounts from the "Near Side", the horses, or bicycle's left
side. You also lead, saddle, and walk the horse, bicycle, on the near
side.

For mounting you might try standing at the side of the bike. Then
lower the top tube, away from your side of the bike, nearly to the
ground and step across the now nearly ground level top tube, then
raise the bike to the vertical and you should be standing flat footed
straddling the bike. Kick the front pedal until it i horizontal, step
up on the pedal and away you go :-)

And if the flatfoot's pedals are not at just the right angle, I don't
have anywhere to stand on my left foot or I have no place to put my
right foot after clearing the frame. Nonetheless, I've decided to
"wheelchair" to church regardless of how I feel when I wake up,
because I frequently find that not limping takes too much attention
after I get halfway home.

But on Saturday, I really should have walked to the festival. I had
to walk most of the time anyway, and pushing the flatfoot was a drag.
--
Cheers,

I planned an all-day ride for Thursday, and the weather was predicted
to be scorching, so on Wednesday night I stick-blended much too small
a piece of fresh ginger in a pint or two of water, then simmered the
ginger for an hour with chopped rhubarb and a quarter cup of rice.
I strained it into a jar, ate the seasoned rice for my bedtime snack
(with butter and cinnamon fructose), and chilled the extract
overnight.

The switchel lacked half a cup of being enough to fill a bottle, so I
poured in some orange-colored juice. Oops, that wasn't orange juice,
it was pink-grapefruit juice! And it was canned juice with every
molecule of the bitter in the peel included -- they must run the
fruits through a blender, then centrifuge out the solids.

(Bout of nostalgia for my Florida childhood, when we squeezed citrus
juice into quart-size glasses for every meal.) (But I don't think
they were ever more than half-full.)

So I put a spoonful of fructose in it, and it was just right -- but
benefitted from being topped off with water at every fountain.

Today, I was only going to two Farmers' Markets and a group yard sale,
and the predicted high was only seventy-nine Fahrenheit, so I didn't
make switchel, but I had found a couple of flowering stalks on the
rhubarb and made a tea of the stems, so I poured what was left of the
infusion into a bottle, added a sprig of basil, and filled the bottle
with ice cubes. Oops, this would taste much better with a little
honey, but I've already put the ice in; honey would never dissolve.

Fructose doesn't taste as good as honey, but it's finely-divided, and
it's nutritionally exactly the same. I measured it in with the same
plastic spoon I measured fructose into the switchel with.

And it was WAY too much sugar.

So I topped it off at every fountain, and shook it vigorously in the
hope of bruising the basil. Next time I'll bruise the basil before I
put it into the bottle.

One of these years I'll make a batch of switchel with molasses and
vinegar.

To the Farmers' Markets today. The only farmer at the first one had
sold out and gone home. I bought a "Tuscan chicken wrap" and a bag of
chocolate-toffee saltines at the other.

Thursday was a contrived ride, in honor of the only rain-free day
predicted this week. (The rain didn't quite materialize today, but
came close enough that I hurried home by the shortest route.)

On Thursday, I went to the animal shelter by way of the Heritage Trail
and 225S, to avoid Pierceton Road and the worst part of Wooster.
(Which worst part Google Maps marks with a dotted green line. On the
other hand, they also green-dot 225 S, which *is* "bicycle friendly",
and they did route me through Robby Road.) I delivered the last three
pieces of the old quilt I cut into animal blankets, so I've no more
motivation to go that way. By way of Pierceton is nice, but the last
time I ate at the Odd Fellows Café, they had put a disgusting amount
of sugar into their formerly-delightful tomato soup. Even the
croutons were sweet -- some of them had caramelized when toasted.

From there, I went to Aldi by the scenic route, intending to stop at
Culver's for lunch, but when I got to Culver's I couldn't decide to
eat anything I could see on the menu. At the time, I thought it was
the heat, but in retrospect, I think it was the cataracts -- I
couldn't read the smaller type that told one exactly what one was
ordering. Well, the heat *did* have something to do with rejecting
the butter burger.

It was time to eat my emergency food bars, but I'd left them home in
the soda fridge; I don't like to store them on the bike when the
garage gets up to eighty or ninety, and forgot them when checking the
bike.

So I went to Martin's intending to eat at the Side Door Café, but I'd
never eaten there and didn't feel up to figuring out the protocol. So
I went to the deli case -- the single-serve containers were all hot,
and macaroni and cheese was as close as they came to balanced. I went
down the line of refrigerator cases reflecting that I'd reached the
stage of hunger where anything specific sounds revolting. Some of the
bulk salads looked good, but exactly how many pounds make a serving?
Got to the end of the dairy section, turned around and went back along
the outside walls. This time I spotted a one-serving container of
"loaded baked potato salad". Potato salad makes a fairly-decent
one-dish meal, so I bought it and went to the bike for my spoon --
which, for convenience, I had moved from the tool-kit bag to the
emergency-food bag a few months ago. Eat potato salad with my fingers
in public? I put it into the insulated pannier; if I can't find any
snacks at Aldi, well, that's where I buy my emergency food bars.

As I was pulling out, I noticed that the tables and chairs on the
patio in front of the Side Door Cafe are now accessible from the
outside -- and, because of the heat, deserted. So I turned back.

Then I discovered that I could eat my "salad" with my knife in a
civilized and un-embarrassing manner -- because it was nothing but
chunks of left-over potato. There were some shreds of cheese and
something I presumed were bacon bits tossed with the leftover potato,
and a bit of sauce at the bottom. I think one was supposed to zap or
fry it.

I'd meant to get a couple of extra miles by looping to the north, but
upon leaving Aldi, I decided to skip that for reasons that had nothing
to do with the frozen sausage in my pannier. I couldn't face the
infamous intersection of Parker and Thirty, so I retraced my route and
crossed Thirty on Old Thirty, at Lake Village Shopping Center (which I
had to look up on the map; I call it Sprawl Two or K-Mart Plaza).

When I got home, I told my spouse how much I hated the infamous
intersection, and he said he'd seen pedestrians crossing there with no
trouble.

Duh. All I need to do is to turn right onto Thirty, ride until I find
a flat spot in the median, dismount, cross one set of three lanes at a
time, remount, and ride back to the intersection in the breakdown lane
-- which should be fairly clean because it gets used by right-turning
automobiles a lot.

Parker crossing Thirty is one of the reasons that the powers that be
are planning a limited-access highway from Fort Wayne to Valparaiso.
Nobody is mentioning that "limited access" means "limited crossing".
In CARs of my acquaintance in other places, such few crossing places
as exist are off-limits to bicycles and pedestrians.

Today I went under the railroad on McKinley four times, having
forgotten that my debit card was in the pocket of my walking pants. I
*always* check my wallet to make sure the cards are in it -- so the
first time I miss is also the first time it wasn't.

Each time I use McKinley, I reflect on how nice it is that deep
potholes no longer lurk invisible in the shadow of the bridge -- but
I'd better not break the habit of braking and expecting disaster. The
new pavement is already scarred by the drips that dug potholes in the
old pavement.

Today I went under the railroad on McKinley four times, having
forgotten that my debit card was in the pocket of my walking pants. I
*always* check my wallet to make sure the cards are in it -- so the
first time I miss is also the first time it wasn't.

Each time I use McKinley, I reflect on how nice it is that deep
potholes no longer lurk invisible in the shadow of the bridge -- but
I'd better not break the habit of braking and expecting disaster. The
new pavement is already scarred by the drips that dug potholes in the
old pavement.

One of my personal sadnesses is the realization that potholes form much
more quickly where trees shade the road. And in bright sunlight, the
dappled shadows make it hard to see those potholes.

I love trees and I love smooth roads. I wish they weren't in conflict.